


Build Me a House (That's Far From Home)

by stereokem



Series: Faith and Giles' Halfway House for Wayward Slayers [1]
Category: Buffy the Vampire Slayer (TV)
Genre: Angst, Background Buffy/Giles, F/M, Friendship, No Future For You, Onesided Buffy/Giles, Post-Season/Series Finale, Teamwork
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-22
Packaged: 2021-03-13 17:20:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28906977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stereokem/pseuds/stereokem
Summary: Post Series. Giles, no longer in Buffy's good graces, turns to working with Faith. Together, they start their own business: Faith and Giles' Halfway House for Wayward Slayers.-“Are you trying to dissuade me from helping you?”“I ain’t tryin’ to stop you, no. But first rule of business is be completely honest with your business partner,” she replied, holding up a finger and then pointing it at him. “I just want to know why you, Rupert Giles, want to work with me, Miss Uncongeniality.”
Relationships: Rupert Giles & Buffy Summers, Rupert Giles & Faith Lehane, Rupert Giles/Buffy Summers
Series: Faith and Giles' Halfway House for Wayward Slayers [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2120040
Comments: 3
Kudos: 15





	Build Me a House (That's Far From Home)

**Author's Note:**

> I recently read the comic No Future For You and was reminded how much I love the idea of a Faith-Giles dynamic. I wrote a fic a while back about them living together, set during no particular time (Things Left Unspoken), but wanted to return to the idea here. I'm weirdly into the whole Giles/Buffy pairing (I have daddy issues, okay?), and I was really curious to know what Giles' interactions with Faith would be like if unrequited feelings for Buffy were in the mix. Et voila. 
> 
> This is the first fic in a multi-part series. I literally already wrote the next one, and am super excited for the ones that come after. 
> 
> For those of you who haven't read, I tried to allude to the things that happen in "No Future For You" in such a way that it's obvious, but to recap: Giles found out about Slayer who went rogue and was too evil to rehabilitate. Not wanting to involve Buffy, he goes to Faith for help. He asks Faith to kill the Slayer, Genevieve Savidge. Faith delivers, but Buffy finds out that Giles is working with Faith, whom Buffy still dislikes/distrusts.

Before approaching Faith about the rogue Slayer, Genevieve Savidge, Giles had not spoken to her since the near-Apocalypse at Sunnydale. After the First Evil had been defeated and the town itself was engulfed by a massive sinkhole, Faith had left with Robin Wood and several of the new Slayers, heading for the Hellmouth in Cleveland. Giles remembered feeling distinctly uncomfortable watching them leave together, Robin’s clever smile not quite matching the doubt in Faith’s dark eyes. But, almost instantly after they had left, he was otherwise preoccupied—with Buffy. 

God. He had spent so long trying to earn his keep in her world, trying to be useful so that he could remain near to her. Trying to be helpful. And, perhaps, he was; but the more time that passed, the more he felt the strain of their brief interactions. Their hollow pleasantries holding onto the past and their tense disagreements over strategy, planning, priorities, the future.

It took him longer than it should have to realize that she had outgrown him, this time completely. She no longer needed him—certainly not as he needed her.

It took him even longer to accept it.

But, once he did, he could not continue to pretend that is place was by her side. Instead, he retreated into what he knew best: research. He kept his ear to ground for new evil. He trained new Slayers and Potentials as part of the Slayer Organization. He helped organize and train a group of new Watchers to reform the Watcher’s Council.

And, then, he discovered Genevieve Savidge.

Every report he received of her reminded him inescapably of Faith Lehane. They were, of course, from completely different backgrounds: one rich, one poor; one of high birth, one born with nothing to her name. Beyond this, though, their similarities were many: unstable home life; absent father, alcoholic mother; a clear lack of moral upbringing, of direction. Lack of any stable parental figure—until, of course, they were preyed upon by one, a male mentor who took advantage of and fostered each girl’s most savage inclinations.

Approaching Faith about Genevieve Savidge was always going to be his penultimate resort. He had never wanted to go there . . . but when it became clear to him that Genevieve was not one to be rehabilitated, he booked a trip to Cleveland. And he did it without telling Buffy.

He knew that Buffy would not approve of him working with Faith—and, to be perfectly honest, he wasn’t sure that he entirely approved of it either. Faith was, by turns, fascinating and frustrating to work with. The girl had so many damn walls built up around her, it was no wonder she seemed to be perpetually alone. Flippant, aloof, cocksure, insouciant—this was the Faith that had no interest in obeying.

It had been stupid of him to try physically reach out to her. He wouldn’t go so far as to say that he _deserved_ a fork in his bicep, but the move to touch her arm was still ill-advised. But, perhaps it had been necessary, as something had changed in Faith once she’d seen his Eyghon tattoo. She calmed, perhaps. Or at least began to look at him differently. She consented to the etiquette lessons, to the accent-training, to the ball gown.

She had surprised him, then. And she did it again when, after she had killed Genevieve, she confessed that she wasn’t ready to retire. That she wanted to _help_. After all that she had seen and been through, she still found an opportunity to do good. Giles found that he wanted to be there with her.

-

Faith asked Giles if he wanted to do dinner, to talk in more detail about their tentative plans to track down and rehabilitate rogue Slayers. He was a little surprised at the gesture; aside from the training he had given her about table etiquette, they had never set down to an actual meal together. He hadn’t really imagined, impending partnership or no, that she would feel inclined to break bread with him so soon.

“Certainly,” he found himself replying almost automatically. “I, erm, have to go into the city this afternoon to meet up with a contact, but I should be back by six— obviously, you’re welcome to stay here in the meantime,” he added almost hastily. He had no idea where else she would have gone but something told him that she _would_ go, if not given an explicit invitation to stay.

Faith gave him a lopsided grin. “Thanks, G. Promise I won’t go snooping.”

He didn’t bother telling her that, here at least, there was nothing to find. She went back upstairs to the guest bedroom and shut herself in. He presumed she was planning to catch up on more sleep—most Slayers, he found, tended to sleep a great deal after an intense battle—but, when he left through the front door, he distinctly hear the sound of the upstairs bath running.

He took the tube to the Tottenham Court Road stop and from there went to the British Museum where he met with his contact, a full-time historian and part-time demon hunter named Alan Merrick. Merrick knew Giles from his days as a curator, and the two traded pleasantries while looking over an artefact that had been recovered from a crypt in Italy. Merrick reminded Giles strongly of Wesley Wyndam Price, though was a great deal less pompous and even more bookish; he was, as ever, hoping that Giles would do a little legwork for him where this artefact was concerned.

Giles was grateful for this distraction. It gave him some much-needed distance from Faith—not that he found her company intolerable. No, she was surprisingly easy to coexist with. Rather, it gave him the space to evaluate himself, his own actions, and the commitment he had just made.

Starting a rehab program for rebellious new Slayers was the right thing to do; he was thoroughly convinced of that. However, he was not entirely sure that he was doing it for the right reasons. Was he using this as an excuse to avoid seeing Buffy? Was he selfishly trying to regain a sense of importance? Or did he simply think that working with Faith would be engrossing enough to distract him from everything he was avoiding?

He mulled this over as he and Merrick perused the artefact in question. After examining the artefact itself, they had a lengthy conversation about its origins and composition. Finally, Giles agreed to look into it. He finished up at the Museum around 5:45, and texted Faith whilst standing on the steps outside the main entrance.

_Finished._

He hadn’t even considered that she might not respond for a length of time, or had forgotten about their plans entirely. She had, after all, eschewed all forms of communication when going in after Genevieve. He needn’t have worried; Faith responded within three minutes:

_Cool. Meet at Grafton Arms._

Grafton Arms, a pub located near Westminster Abbey, was, as ever, busy when Giles arrived; however, he had no problem spotting Faith. She was leaning in a stool at the main bar, chatting up the bartender, a blonde bloke who reminded Giles uncomfortably of Spike. She was dressed in tight jeans and had, from somewhere, picked up a touristy-looking t-shirt with the British flag on the chest. The bartender spent quite a bit of his time looking at that flag.

Faith spotted him immediately and hopped off her barstool, heartlessly abandoning the crushed-looking bartender. “Hey, G,” she greeted. “Wanna grab a booth?”

Giles looked at her bemusedly. “Did you . . . go on a tour?”

Faith grinned. “Yeah, well, when in London, right? I never seen Jolly Ol’ England in the daytime. Figured Big Ben was at least worth a peep. And, you know, gotta look the part?” she gestured to her very tight t-shirt.

Giles did not miss how the eyes of several bargoers were stuck on Faith. He cleared his throat. “Yes, right. I see.”

They went to a booth at the back of the pub. Faith ordered a pint of some local Hefeweizen and Giles a Guinness. They both ordered fish and chips, Faith because she was “feelin’ real English”, Giles because he was partial. As soon as the server brought their drinks and left with their kitchen order, Faith took what seemed to be a fortifying sip of her beer and said:

“So: not that I’m not grateful for the support, but what would make Rupert Giles, Watcher to _The_ Slayer Buffy Summers, want to hitch around with the Psycho Slayer—even on the pretense of doing good?” 

Giles did not quite frown, but his mouth pursed into something like a moue. He had been asking himself the same question not an hour ago and come up with no great answers. Instead, he focused on Faith’s words. He recalled her tendency to be flippant and to denigrate herself, but he had hoped that, after her own rehabilitation, she would have . . . well, settled on self-descriptors other than _psycho._ “Faith—”

She must have seen the look of disapproval and deduced what was coming, because she held up her hand to stop him. He noticed that her brown palm had a deep scar running between the thumb and index finger.

“It’s a joke, Giles,” she said, almost irritably.

“Right,” he said, uncomfortably. Then, answering her original question he said: “Well, to be honest, I was more or less doing that already. That is, I had been helping monitor Potentials and activated Slayers when I found Genevieve.”

There. It was a start in the right direction, he supposed.

“So, you want to pal around with me and find more Genevieves?” She took a sip of her beer.

“As you said, I’d rather find them before they become utterly corrupted. Give them guidance, training.”

Faith raised one dark eyebrow. “You could do that by yourself. Or with Buffy.”

Every time he heard her name, something in his chest tightened. Giles attempted to school his expression, to not give himself away. He raised his own eyebrows in turn. “Are you trying to dissuade me from helping you?”

“I ain’t tryin’ to stop you, no. But first rule of business is be completely honest with your business partner,” she replied, holding up a finger and then pointing it at him. “I just want to know why _you_ , Rupert Giles, want to work with _me_ , Miss Uncongeniality.”

“I can’t work with Buffy right now. Things are . . . complicated.”

It wasn’t quite what he meant to say; he hadn’t wanted to bring Buffy into it at all. But, he supposed that it was almost inevitable. In any case, these words seemed to soften Faith a little. Her full dark mouth tilted into a frown and she looked down into her pale drink. “Because of me, right? She really wasn’t happy about that, I bet.”

Just then the waiter came by with their food. Giles gave a muted “thanks” while Faith continued to stare into her pint.

“She wasn’t,” Giles admitted, picking up a vinegar-smeared chip. “But it has less to do with you and more to do with me.”

He pretended to be interested in his food, but he was aware that she was now staring at him intently. He had the distinct feeling that she was trying to determine how far to push this subject. There was something sharp about her features that let him know she scented him.

But, she let it go, almost easily. “Okay, then,” she said, picking up a chip of her own. “But, again, why do you want to work with _moi_?” She popped it into her mouth.

Giles chewed thoughtfully for a moment, then swallowed before replying: “The girls we are looking for . . . they often do not have stable home lives. They’re young. They’re scared. Some of them are desperate to make sense of the situation. They do reckless, impulsive things. Needless to say, I, as a man, can often exacerbate such a situation, try as I might to diffuse it. You—”

“Am a chick, point to me.”

“—have similar experience,” Giles finished. He watched something in Faith’s face shutter a little, the way it had when he first came to her dingy little apartment in Cleveland or when he had misguidedly put his hand on her arm. This time, instead of stabbing him with a fork, she stabbed her fish with it. Watching her eat, Giles continued:

“You can empathize with these girls—level with them, if you will. In that situation, what those girls need is someone to look up to, someone to tell them that they have some identity and agency. They need to know that they have support. That there are others. You, more than most, are qualified to provide that comfort to them.”

Faith sat back in the boot, wiping her hands on a napkin. “That so.”

“Yes.” Giles paused. There was no point in avoiding it. “And, frankly: I know that I can count on you to do what is needed in a time of crisis.” He brought his Guinness up to his mouth and looked at her over the rim of the glass. He could see by her expression that she did not miss his meaning. She too picked up her pint and took a sip.

“Fair enough, G. Any questions for me?”

Giles gave her a small smile. “I’ll let you know.”

-

Living together was a decision they mutually came to through logic and pragmatism. They reasoned that they would be traveling quite a bit while searching for wayward (“or, pre-rogue”, Faith quipped) Slayers and Potentials. But it would be good to have a home base—headquarters, as it were. Giles informed her that he had some property in a suburb of London, where he was keeping most of his library and weapons cache. Faith had little to say about the prospect, only: “So long as it’s got a roof, heat, and running water, I’m five-by-five.”

Needless to say, Giles’ property was equipped with substantially more than just the basics. He had purchased the house several years ago when he came back to Europe with the emotionally damaged Willow in tow. He had bought it specifically with the idea of making it a place for those in need of a retreat of sorts. It was equipped with four bedrooms, three-and-a-half baths, a large kitchen, a large living mainly overrun by books, a den, and a basement that he had outfitted for training. There was also a large back garden kitted out for the same purpose.

When she saw it, Faith didn’t bother hiding her amazement.

“Dude, G,” she said, walking in the front door with her duffle bag slung over one shoulder. She looked around at the high ceilings, the book-strewn living room, the spacious and sunlit kitchen. “This place is _tight_. Who the hell knew being a Slayer babysitter paid that well?”

“Yes, well, hazard pay truly is a blessing.”

He didn’t realize what he was doing until he saw her wandering about his space. That he had invited her into his house, into his space. He remembered, then, in the last days of Sunnydale, living with all of the Potentials and . . . and Buffy.

“So how much you want in rent?”

He looked up, surprised. Faith was standing in the kitchen, leaning against the marble isle with an almost haughty expression on her face. “Nothing,” Giles replied. “It’s paid up.”

Faith immediately looked uncomfortable—which, for her, meant dark and dubious. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but I don’t wanna to owe you anything. You already saved my ass once. I don’t need it to be a first-of-the-month thing.”

“You don’t owe me for that, Faith. And you won’t owe me anything for living in my house.” Pause. “Look, if you really want to . . . ‘earn your keep’, so to speak, we can take turns with chores. And groceries.”

Faith considered this for a long moment. “Okay. Deal.”

-

Faith moved into the second-largest bedroom, which happened to be across the hallway from Giles’ room on the second floor. She had only brought the duffle bag with her to the U.K., and when he asked if she needed to send back for anything in Cleveland, she simply shrugged and said: “Nah. Nothing of value in that shithole. If I wanna spruce the place up, I’ll just pick up a few things in town.”

He was sorely tempted to warn her not to cause any permanent damage to the walls—but he refrained. She was, for all intents and purposes, an adult; and, from what he could see, she had matured in the years since he had first met her. In any case, he wasn’t there to play Watcher and father-figure to _her._ She wouldn’t have tolerated it even if he had tried.

With that thought in mind, Giles let Faith alone as she settled in. He didn’t see her much of that first day, and somewhat expected to not see her much at all for the next several. Thus, he was surprised when he found her in the kitchen the next morning, nursing a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. He was even more surprised to find that she’d left two cups for him.

“Morning, sunshine,” she said, grinning and taking in his slightly rumpled appearance.

Giles flushed. He was still wearing sweats and a grey t-shirt and his hair was a complete mess. Faith, miraculously, looked like she had been up for some time, hair tied back, makeup done. There was a dark red ring on her coffee cup from her lipstick.

“I wanna go over house rules,” she said bluntly as he sat down in the chair catty corner to her with his own steaming mug.

His eyebrows shot up. “Ah—right. Yes.” He realized, quite suddenly, that he had never bothered with such a conversation when anyone else had stayed in his space. That Faith, of all people, wanted to have a conversation about rule and boundaries was . . . flabbergasting, to be honest.

“And we should probably figure out what this operation is gonna look like. You know, before we try and Catch Em All.”

Her reference escaped him, but he nodded all the same. “Agreed.”

What they came up with was very simple: Giles was the brains, Faith was the brawn. It was Giles’ job to tackle the research side, to track down rogue or wayward Potentials and Slayers. Faith would help where she could with any legwork, reconnaissance, et cetera. Once a girl was located, they would both go to confront her. Giles insisted that Faith take the lead here, and that he would serve as backup. Each girl that could be reasoned with would be given a choice: have a Watcher from the Slayer’s Council come to train her, or come to England with Faith and Giles. And, after they had stabilized, Giles would take them to the Slayer Organization, headed by Buffy. They would either stay there or be sent to one of the many growing Slayer colonies, where they would train and grow among sisters until they were able to look after themselves and make their own choices. Faith and Giles agreed to check in on past house guests on a semi-regular basis, for “quality control purposes”, as Giles himself put it.

The house rules, too, were rather simple: 1) keep things relatively tidy; 2) if a supply was depleted, replenish it; 3) use each room for its intended purpose. The kitchen was for cooking and eating, training rooms were for training, bedrooms were for sleeping and leisure activities.

“What about this?” Faith had asked, tipping her head towards the living room, where piles of books could be seen strewn everywhere. “Pretty sure living rooms are meant for chilling.”

“I’ll, erm, move them to the den,” Giles said, feeling slightly embarrassed. He looked down at his coffee cup for a moment, considering his next words carefully.

“I think, for the sake of safety, we should be in regular contact.” He cast his hazel eyes at her. “I expect you will want to continue patrolling and . . . going out,” he left that ambiguous. “But I’d like to know where you are—not details,” he said quickly, seeing her expression shift, “Just a location. In case. . . .”

He trailed off, watching her. Grey light was streaming in from the large window that overlooked the back garden. It illuminated Faith’s face, making her olive skin appear paler than it really was. The light also illuminated the imperfections of her skin: a raised scar on her jaw, a very faint one near her mouth; a characteristic bite scar on the left side of her throat.

After a long moment, she nodded. “Yeah. I can do that.”

After that, there seemed to be little else to say. They finished their coffee in silence. As she got up to rinse her mug, she told him that she was going into town to look for jobs.

“You don’t have to—” Giles began.

“I know you got plenty of resources and money,” Faith said, cutting him off. It wasn’t unkind. “I just wanna earn a little of my own. You know.”

He nodded. He did.

-

In that first week, they worked out a rhythm, which involved them mostly staying out of each other’s way. Save for that first morning, Faith typically slept later than Giles (this fact led him to believe that she hadn’t actually slept the night before their talk, due to nerves or what he did not know). During the day, she would take the public transit into the city and explore and apply for jobs, as it were. She didn’t text him her location, but it was daylight, so he wasn’t worried. He didn’t quite know what kind of work she expected to find, or what kind of job would accommodate an ever-changing travel plan, but he did not think it wise to question or pester her.

While she was out of the house, Giles researched. Over the years, he had gotten passably decent at using technology, and used his desktop computer to send encrypted messages to other Watchers, Slayer groups, and contacts of his, seeking out new Potentials. He made phone calls. Read up on old lore. Received requests to investigate hauntings and possible demonic possessions (since returning to England, he had, somehow, picked up a reputation as a “ghost hunter” and gained some irregular but lucrative employment in that capacity). During that first week, he also made some headway on the artefact of Merrick’s. All in all, he kept himself busy much as he had previously.

To his surprise, Faith didn’t stay out that first week; she came home every afternoon. She often called out when she entered the house (presumably to avoid being attacked by an overly jumpy Watcher), and headed to her room. When he did see her, she was often out in the back garden, training. He stopped to watch her more than he should have, unable to quell his curiosity about her. He didn’t know quite what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t this. She was . . . calm. Mature, even.

He supposed that, after everything she had been through, even someone as wild as Faith could begin to mellow a bit.

When he watched her, he often wondered what Buffy would think of this version of Faith. If it would soften Buffy’s opinion any to see Faith like this: dedicated and focused. Giles himself was constantly comparing this Faith to the girl he knew back in Sunnydale; they were not diametrically opposed to one another, but they were different enough that Giles surmised that Faith had done some serious battle with her own demons to achieve this new level of composure. She had done some truly horrific things in the past, things that would break the conscience of any normal person. He did not doubt that she lived with the guilt daily; but, all things considered, she was doing surprisingly well.

But could she be forgiven? It was not Giles’ call to make. He understood the kinds of impulses that drove one to make terrible choices. He knew what it felt like to be coursing with power, to feel, at least for a moment, like a god. He also understood what it was like to be in the depths of despair, to be driven by rage and hatred. But that did not excuse the actions of either of them. 

He was lucky that he had been stopped from true atrocity in his youth. Faith had not been.

 _But_ , he thought as he watched her cooling down from her training, _she is making the best of her amends. You must give her credit for that, Buffy._

-

On Tuesday afternoon after that first week, Faith arrived back from the city early with a triumphant grin on her face. “Got a job,” she informed him as she came through the front door. “Start next weekend”

He looked up from the tome he was pouring over. “Congratulations,” he said, unable to hide his faint surprise.

Faith rolled her eyes. “I got a gig as the muscle at a nightclub. It’s a real skeezy place for sure, and I’m dead pos the manager is dealing drugs in the back, but I figure that means I might still have a job if I have to skip town for a week or two. Shady characters all around.”

“Splendid,” Giles said sarcastically.

Faith’s grin just broadened. “Also, great place to clock some vamps. Figured I could kill a few birds with one stone.”

Oddly charmed, he couldn’t help but return her grin. While Faith wasn’t entirely surly these days, she was very solitary; they hadn’t really spoken much beyond vague greetings as they passed each other through the house. This short interaction was bordering on friendly, and he might as well take advantage of it.

“Well. I believe this is cause for celebration. Take out? My treat.”

They ended up ordering curry from the tiny Indian restaurant in town (it was the kind of place where there were only five tables in the whole joint, but Giles insisted that it was some of the best curry he’d ever eaten). Faith went to pick up the order with Giles’ money, and stopped at a convenience store for beer on the way back.

It was a bit cold that evening, so Giles started a fire in the hearth while Faith was out for food. By the time she got back, it was crackling merrily, on its way to blazing. She seemed oddly delighted by it.

They sat on opposite ends of the large couch in the middle of the living room. During the week, Giles had, as promised, relocated most of the books to the den, so there was no fear (on Giles’ part) of spilling curry or beer on some sacred text. They ate in the strange, almost-but-not-quite-comfortable silence that accompanied nearly all of their shared meals. Faith was doing an excellent job of being (or pretending to be) totally preoccupied with her food. Giles, on the other hand, found himself watching her again. Thinking.

He was halfway through his second beer when he blurted:—

“I shouldn’t say this but . . . I am sorry.”

Faith seemed almost as startled by his outburst as Giles himself. She paused with her beer halfway to her lips, raising both dark eyebrows. “Yeah? What for?”

“For asking you to murder Genevieve.”

Giles saw Faith immediately tense, shoulders furling in and head dipping. She tapped the mouth of her beer bottle gently against her full lips as she stared into the fire. Giles was sorely wishing he could take the comment back when Faith suddenly replied in a tight, angry voice: “Well, that’s me: murder-girl. Going all psycho-killer stabby-stabby is kinda my MO. Besides, who else were you gonna call?”

She wasn’t looking at him when she asked this question, but continuing to stare into the fire. The flickering light illuminated her features much as the grey sunlight had last week, though this time it made her seem softer, not sharper. He watched the shadows play beneath her jawline.

“There was no one else I could ask.”

Across the couch, Faith shifted, bringing her knees up to her chest. She was wearing soft black pants and her white-socked feet peaked out from underneath the hems. She took a deep swig of her beer. When she spoke next, some of the anger had leeched from her voice, leaving it merely rough. “Some of us are just built like that. Nature or nurture, doesn’t matter. At least now, if I kill, it’s for good.” She did turn to look at him then, levelling a very serious gaze at him. “You don’t have to feel bad about taking advantage of that.”

Something in Giles wanted to laugh. God. Faith was no more than a child compared to him. She was _not_ meant to be comforting _him_. “I do, though.”

Faith gave an almost annoyed huff. He couldn’t tell if this was annoyance at him or some unfathomable thing known only to her. “Well, you don’t exactly have clean hands either, dude. I mean, the way you dealt with that sicko Roden was . . . gross.”

Giles pursed his mouth. He thought about the last he saw of Roden—which was his head exploding cinematically into a mess of blood, bone, and brain matter. “Rather.”

“Impressive, though. Anyway, if I’ve learned anything, it’s that sometimes the Big Good only gets done when someone is willing to do the Little Bad. And, most of the time, that person is me.”

“Yes,” Giles answered faintly. He took another drink.

It was his turn to be watched intently by Faith. When he lowered his beer bottle, he found her dark gaze upon him, head tilted so that her soft brown hair fell at her collarbone. She was, he reflected, a rather beautiful young woman, but something about the way she was looking at him sent a chill down his spine.

“If you couldn’t ask me, would you have asked Buffy?”

She already knew the answer to that question. She merely wanted to hear him say it.

“No. No, I would have found a way to do it myself.”

Faith raised an eyebrow. “You’d kill for Buffy, huh?”

“I already have.”

A long silence followed that. Giles took the opportunity to get up and attend to the fire, though it hardly needed it. He prodded the log with an iron poker just to have something to do for a few moments other than sit in that bloody silence. 

Mercifully or no, it was Faith who broke it.

“You know,” she began from her place on the couch. “I was always jealous of her—yeah, yeah, I know, big surprise. Fucked up Faith jealous of perfect Buffy Summers.”

Giles found himself contradicting her, almost by reflex. He straightened and turned to look at Faith. “She isn’t—”

“Perfect, I know,” Faith finished. “But it always seemed to me that she had charmed life in comparison. Grew up with two parents, even though they split. Enough money. Nice house. Super cool mom. Loyal friends. And you.”

Giles blinked. “Me?”

Faith nodded. “Yeah. My Watcher back in Boston . . . she was OK. Stiff upper lip and all that. We never really got along. I was just a charge to her—a pain in the ass, really. But you and Buffy . . .”

Faith trailed off. Giles, not knowing what else to do, placed the iron poker back in its holder and went to the liquor cabinet. He pulled out a bottle of whisky and, seeing that he had no clean glasses in the cabinet, went to retrieve some from the kitchen.

“I was always jealous of how much you . . . looked after her,” he heard Faith say as he returned to the living room with two clean tumblers. Faith was staring into the fire, intent. She almost seemed as if she were talking to herself. “You just cared . . . so goddamn much about her. I always got the feeling you’d do anything to protect her.” She shrugged. “Guess I was right.” She tipped her beer bottle back, draining in in several long pulls.

Giles sat gingerly back on his end of the couch, placing the tumblers on the coffee table before them. He didn’t want to talk about Buffy; but, also, he wanted to talk about nothing else. He recalled that this was what it felt like to be addicted: you abhorred and you craved all in one. It wasn’t rational, this kind of need.

“Some think I shouldn’t care so much,” Giles said ruefully as he poured them each a measure of whisky. “I was fired as a Watcher for the way I treated Buffy— the way I felt about her. I was told it blinded my judgement. They weren’t wrong.” He picked up both glasses, extending one to Faith.

(If he had been more mentally present, he would have noticed that she took it from him more carefully than she ought. He would have noticed that their hands deliberately did not touch.)

“You love her.”

Giles sat back in his nook of the couch and took a drink of the burning amber liquid. Yes, he did love her. He had come to grips with that already. He had loved her from almost the very beginning. It was what had gotten him fired: _You have a father’s love for the child._ It was plain as day for anyone to see, even her. Nothing to hide anymore.

He tried not to think of Buffy, of her voice the last time they spoke: the disappointment, the anger.

“Yes.” _Of course I love her._

He tried not to think of her— 

“Are you _in_ love with her?”

— but he thought of her _all the time._

The question had been casual, almost flippant, as if it wasn’t serious or she wasn’t expecting a serious answer— but it hit him like a slap in the face. He could almost hear it ringing in the air where his response was meant to be. His protestation. His denial.

But he made no such remark. He remained silent.

Across the couch, Faith seemed to slowly perk up. As if she suddenly realized what that silence meant.

“Fuck. Sorry.”

Giles didn’t look at her but into his glass, swirling his whisky around aimlessly. How the fuck had they gotten here? He hadn’t meant . . . he didn’t . . . it wasn’t supposed to be like this. He had gone to England to get away from Buffy and these feelings. He had come here to escape it, to wait until they died down and faded into nothing. He didn’t want to discuss this with Faith.

And, yet, he did. He wanted to talk about it the same way we all want to divulge our failures and deepest regrets, to just spread them around so that we alone don’t bear that misery. Perhaps it was for the best that they were discussing this now; now, he had no secrets to hide. Now, she knew.

Giles glanced at Faith. Her expression was difficult to read, but he could at least see that she wasn’t . . . disgusted. Rather, she looked thoughtful; her brow was furrowed slightly, and she was chewing something over. Guilt, perhaps?

“Don’t be. It’s hardly your fault.”

Faith shook her head slowly. And then said something quite unexpected:—

“It’s not yours either. You can’t help it. You fell in love with her, just like everyone else.” She paused. “Just like me, in a way. I don’t swing that way, but I kinda fell in love with the _idea_ of Buffy. As a sister in arms. Someone I could just be myself with.” Faith went quiet and looked away from him, towards the fire. “Anyway, I get it.”

He didn’t know what to the say in the face of such a confession, of such . . . commiseration and understanding. So, he said nothing. He sipped at his whisky and Faith sipped at hers, and they simply sat in the warm silence.

At long last, when he thought he had regained some of his old composure, Giles spoke up.

“When did you say your job starts?”

“Next Friday. Why?”

“I got a lead on a newly activated Slayer in Germany.” He’d gotten a call from Willow earlier that day with the information. He had been sitting on that information ever since Faith walked in the door, for no particular reason other than he was feeling oddly skittish about it. As if telling her would make this . . . whatever it was real. It would. It did.

Faith’s brown eyes seemed to almost sparkle at the possibility. She licked her lips. “Ballin. When do we leave?”

This could be his new beginning. He realized it now in a way he hadn’t before. This could remake him. Give him purpose again. Agency. Identity.

Partnership.

“Tomorrow.”

“Should be able to make it back in time for my shift then.” Faith leaned forward then, grinning, and extended her glass to him in toast. “To the Faith and Giles Halfway House for Wayward Slayers.”

He raised his glass in return and gently clinked it with hers. He could not help but smile.

“Cheers.”


End file.
